Making Him Forget
by dysprositos
Summary: Natasha didn't know if she'd fallen in love with him, or when. She thought, if it was love, that it must have been before, must have been sort of an 'I just didn't notice it' type of thing, because how could it have been after? After Loki, after Manhattan, after she found herself sitting by his bed in a harsh, white hospital room for the second time in as many months?


**Warnings: attempted suicide, language, general idiocy committed by multiple characters.**

My beta, irite, continues to forge new avenues into awesomeness.

Happy first day of vacation! To celebrate, have something just a _little_ bit different. I don't write romance, so...this is about as close as I can get right now.

I do not own The Avengers.

* * *

Natasha didn't know if she'd fallen in love with him, or when. She thought, if it was love, that it must have been before, must have been sort of an 'I just didn't notice it' type of thing, because how could it have been _after_? After Loki, after Manhattan, after she found herself sitting by his bed in a harsh, white hospital room for the second time in as many months?

It couldn't have been after, because that was wrong. Because falling in love with a shadow, with something broken, was sick, and twisted, and it wasn't any good. For anyone.

Natasha _knew _this.

And Clint _was _broken, after what had happened. Natasha didn't know the specifics—Clint would not talk about the time he spent with Loki—so she only knew the haunted look in his eyes, the way he flinched from her touch, how he never made eye-contact, the way he couldn't sleep, instead existing in a constant semi-conscious haze of near-palpable despair. He was broken, yes, and it was something he seemed bound and determined to prove, to embrace, even if it destroyed him.

Of course, self-destruction seemed to be his goal.

The first time, Clint said it was an accident. Well, not quite. What he actually said was, "I couldn't fucking sleep," but the implication was definitely that it had been an accident. If that was true, it was one hell of an accident—the circumstances around it never should have been able to coalesce. There never should have been _that much_ Valium swimming in _that much_ vodka through his bloodstream, there was no universe in which that was normal, no reason it ever _should _have happened.

So Natasha didn't think it was an accident. But she didn't press the issue, too determined to make this normal, make _him _normal, to put it in the past.

The second time, he didn't even try to make the 'accident' claim, and how could he? The implication of the gun in his mouth was undeniable, as was the defeated, resigned look in his eyes when he handed it to her—Clint might have been planning to blow himself to kingdom come that morning, but he wouldn't do it in front of her, he wouldn't make her watch. Also undeniable was the hurt, betrayed expression that replaced the defeat when Natasha called an ambulance and the paramedics took him, boneless and pliant in his restraints, back to the hospital that had released him only five weeks ago.

Yeah, it was all undeniable.

Undeniable like the worry and anger twisting in her gut, like the raging thoughts of _I will not let you do this to me_ and _I can't let you do this to yourself, _and yes, even a shadow of _I can't live without you _that were overtaking every other thought in her mind.

This, Natasha knew, could not happen. Should not be happening. She had spent her whole life avoiding this exact scenario—falling in love with another agent, and with her best friend, no less—and she'd been damn successful at it. And now? Now all of her efforts were falling apart and at a time and in a way that made her question everything she'd ever believed about herself.

_That's why it had to be before_, she told herself. _Of course it happened before_. Because after? Falling in love with the broken, sharp-edged remains of what had _once been_ her best friend? Falling in love with someone was _so_ needy, so _desperate _to be saved that he couldn't even choose, couldn't care who did it? That wasn't just ill-timed, it was...sick. Fucked up.

And that wasn't Natasha. She'd always been the type to get in, get what she needed, and then get the hell out of dodge, all before she made any emotional connections. But Clint had worked his way past all her roadblocks and somehow become her best friend. Her _only _friend, really.

So, yeah, if this was love (_is it_?), then she'd fallen in love before. Definitely. But now, now that he was broken, now she could see that she loved him because all she wanted to do was fix him. And she thought she could, thought she had the capability, the power, the strength. Because she understood him, she had been where he was now, had been unmade and had found her way back to herself. And if _she _could do it, why couldn't he?

Watching him sleep (he'd already slept through twelve hours of his seventy-two hour psychiatric hold, seemed determined to sleep through the rest of it), Natasha wondered if he knew. If he suspected. She thought not—she didn't think she was acting any differently, not yet, and he was so wrapped up in the misery and guilt and blind rage that she didn't think he would notice _anything _unless it slapped him across the face.

Maybe not even then. Because she was sure that _everyone's _offers of help were damn obvious, but he remained oblivious to them.

So she was still safe, she could still end this, she could still avoid the bright, glaring disaster that she was rushing towards full-tilt. She could walk away, save herself.

But would she? At what cost would it come?

_Now's not the time to get sentimental, Romanoff_. _Putting yourself above the mission is a surefire way to get yourself shot, or stabbed, or worse, hurt somewhere it doesn't bleed, but you _ _feel it all the same._

Clint needed something, yes. He needed to be saved. And she was willing to do it, willing to put herself aside, wanted to do it, wanted to see him whole again.

But it seemed like disaster was inevitable. She would be putting them in a position where she would almost certainly hurt him eventually. This, whatever it was, was doomed to failure. If he couldn't face his demons, if he was cracked beyond repair...how long would she wait? How long could she put up with it, the stress, the worrying? How long until her sense of self-preservation kicked in and she decided 'enough?'

Or what if she just failed, and couldn't save him? Was she willing to take on that burden, that responsibility? That guilt, if he finally succeeded in his grand plan of self-destruction? Because it could crush her, if she let it.

And for what? _What _do _you even want from this_?

Honestly, she didn't know. What did 'normal' people want from love? From relationships? Support? He couldn't give her that. Some kind of emotional connection? Validation? Right now, Clint could give her nothing. Maybe—if she fixed him—he could. But it was equally as likely that he wouldn't—there was no guarantee to any of this. She couldn't even attest to her own feelings, could not state definitively _what _it was that she was trying to do. She just knew what she _wanted _to do, and that was to fit the pieces of this man she had come to love back together and hope that somehow, this would all work out in the end.

She couldn't believe any of this was a gamble she was actually willing to take.

But somehow, for some inexplicable reason, she was.

* * *

When Clint woke up, he was disoriented, and Natasha wondered briefly what, exactly, the doctors had him on. But those thoughts were pushed from her mind when he blinked up at her, all huge, confused eyes, and mumbled, "You stayed."

"Of course I did," she replied, her voice harsh, unforgiving, angry. "I wasn't just going to leave you here." _I never have before_. _Why would I start now?_

There was a long pause. "You should have."

Christ, she knew it, too. Knew that was the right fucking thing to do. But how to explain to him the things that had kept her here, how to give voice to the convoluted knot of feelings and desires that had anchored her beside his bed, watching the nightmares chase each other across his face while he slept?

They started at each other in growing silence, the tension between them stretching and shifting, coming to its breaking point and—

"I know I should have, but I...can't," she said, by way of an explanation, against all judgment, almost against her will. Her words froze her in place, and she her eyes latched on Clint's as she waited for his response.

He blinked again, slowly, and his eyes widened a fraction further, but when he spoke all he said was, "I don't want to be here anymore."

She didn't know what he meant, exactly (there was so much he _could _have meant) but she took his words at face value. "Then we should go." And Natasha knew it was a mistake, but she'd thrown her better judgment out the window at this point, was letting her heart guide her even as her mind screamed in protest. So she helped him dress, watching him pull on the clothes he'd arrived in; the muddy jeans and dirty sneakers he'd been wearing for God-knows how long, the simple black t-shirt that had fit only two months ago but now hung off his frame. And when he was dressed, she checked both directions in the hallway and the pair of them slipped into the staircase and made their way down to the non-descript sedan Natasha had parked across the street over half a day before.

Clint slipped into the passenger's side, and Natasha slid behind the wheel. "Where are we going?"

"Home," Clint answered simply, but it wasn't that simple.

"Back to Stark Tower, or—"

"Home," he said again, more emphatically, and Natasha started the car and headed towards SHIELD's barracks.

Clint hadn't been back to his apartment with SHIELD since the battle. He didn't say why, but Natasha expected it was because it reminded him of Coulson, who had been Clint's handler and one of his closest friends for years. That he wanted to go there now was...odd, but Natasha was determined not to think too hard about it. Instead, she started, "What I said earlier..."

Looking out the window, Clint repeated her words. "You couldn't leave me."

"Yeah. Look, just forget I said anything—"

He turned to face her, and his eyes were still too wide and his words practically stumbled over themselves as he said, "I don't want to forget."

She wished he would.

But he wasn't done. "Fuck. Of course I want to forget. I want to forget more than anything, Christ, but it's always right _there_. I just...I can't do it. I can't do this by myself." His eyes searched for hers, and when they met, he finished, "Can you help me forget?"

When he asked like that, what could she possibly say? It wasn't like _this _wasn't something she wanted. "Yeah. I can, Clint. And I will. You're going to be okay."

And the contract was sealed.

She parked in the lot behind the apartment complex, and the two of them got out of the car. Natasha took Clint's hand and led him up to his apartment. He didn't have his keys, but that didn't matter, not to them, and they got the door open easily enough. It was barely closed behind them before Natasha had pushed Clint up against the wall and had locked her mouth on his in a kiss.

It was hungry and desperate, and when Clint pulled back to draw a breath, his lips were red and swollen under the harsh lights of the foyer.

He looked dazed, and Natasha took the opportunity to grab his wrist and drag him through the apartment. She knew the space well, had been here often enough that she knew every corner, every turn, and she maneuvered them to the bedroom with ease.

Facing Clint, she instructed him, "Clothes off. Now."

But he didn't move, instead staring at her with his head cocked slightly to one side, like he wasn't sure what was happening, or why, or how.

To be honest, Natasha didn't know either, didn't know how this had started, and she sure as hell didn't know how it was going to end. It was happening though, around them, maybe even despite them, and she was done thinking about it, done agonizing, done deciding. So she grabbed the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head, tossing it indifferently behind her. Her bra followed closely behind. "Your turn."

And that got him moving. He stripped his t-shirt off, dropping it to the floor, and then Natasha's hands were on his chest, running gently over the muscles and the scars from the battle that were still fresh enough to be raised ridges under her fingers. Her hands moved steadily down, until her fingertips were brushing against the button on his jeans. She hesitated, then, looking up at him. But instead of the 'are you sure about this,' she'd intended to utter, she asked, "Are you ready?"

As a response, he closed the scant distance between them, crushing their bodies together, and took her mouth in another kiss.

Natasha could feel him through the rough fabric of his jeans, hard against her thigh, and she smiled against his mouth. She deftly unfastened the button and pushed his jeans down, stepping back so Clint could shimmy out of them and kick them aside. His boxers were disposed of in a similar fashion, and while he was doing that, Natasha stripped the rest of the way.

Naked, she tugged him onto the bed.

And soon, she made him forget everything.

* * *

They both fell asleep afterwards, and when Natasha woke up it was 6:30 AM and she was alone.

She'd barely reached coherence when she heard her phone ringing somewhere on the floor. Sifting through their discarded clothing, she found it just in time for the call to go to voicemail.

But instead of leaving a message, whoever had been calling just called again.

It was Fury.

Natasha answered with a brusque, "This is Romanoff."

"Romanoff. I'm calling about Barton. He went missing from his hospital room last night—"

"I know, sir, he was with me."

Fury paused. "Was he still with you when he cut his wrists three hours ago, or did you misplace him at some point, Agent?"

"...What?"

Fury didn't repeat himself. "Room 413. Same fucking hospital as the _last _two times, Christ. I'll need you to come in today so we can talk about Barton's little disappearing act, Romanoff. Don't fuck this up anymore than you already have."

"...Of course, sir."

The line went dead.

And now she understood why Clint had wanted to come _here_. Here, he could slip away easily. There was no insomniac billionaire, no security footage, no omnipresent, tattling AI. Here, he could vanish, completely unnoticed, if he wanted to. If he needed to.

From the moment they'd left the hospital, he'd thought he would need to. And apparently he _had _needed to.

Ignoring the dread and anger rising through her chest (_What are you getting yourself into?)_, Natasha wasted no time, throwing on her clothes from the night before and rushing out the door.

When she got to his room, Natasha thought Clint was unconscious. But when she sidled up to his bed, he cracked his eyes open. "...Nat."

And of all the feelings that rushed through her—anger, worry, pity, fear—the one that stood out the most was the crushing sense of _failure_, like she was to blame for this, for him.

_The guilt will crush you, if you let it_.

Natasha steeled herself. She couldn't let that happen. She needed to be strong, she needed to be whole, and she could not let him drag her through this, no matter how badly she wanted him to just be _better_. He needed to be saved, yes, but he needed to do it himself, she could _not _carry him. She might have made a promise, but it was one she couldn't keep, not if she wanted to stay afloat.

"Clint...I—"

But then he looked up at her, wide-eyed and desperate, and instead of saying any of that, what came out of her mouth was, "I thought I could make you forget."

He sighed sleepily, tugging his bandaged wrists in their soft restraints. "You can. I just...don't...I can't..."

And Natasha knew what he was trying to say, that he needed her. That he couldn't do this alone. That he wasn't even going to fucking _try_. And she knew she should decline, knew she should walk out, knew she should tell him that she needed to stop trying to fix him, that he needed to fix _himself_, but instead she said, "Yeah. Yeah, I'll get you through this. I promise."

* * *

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